Chapter 9: QuickBooks

It was the Wednesday right before what would be my winter break. I was deciding the perfect time to quit.

8 AM: I enter boss-man's apartment. I take a seat at my desk.

8:01 AM: Boss-man walks in and hands me a pamphlet for a QuickBooks seminar.

He says, "I'm sending you to Huntingdon Beach to learn QuickBooks. Look at the dates on here and tell me which of them are good for you."

Wait. What? He just told me I was supposed to drive to Huntington Beach for a week-long seminar that makes waiting in line at the DMV equivalent to skydiving?

Who the fuck does he think he is?

Huntington Beach is a good hour and half away from where I live and he wants me to be there by 7 AM to learn QuickBooks for five days in a row? Really?

Sure, knowing QuickBooks may be necessary skill to have, but, frankly, I'd rather develop my skills in juggling than QuickBooks.

If he had given me the option to take an online tutorial (i.e. more YouTube time) then maybe it would've been okay.

But you don't just hand a person a pamphlet and force them to drive to some Marriott to learn a computer program and drink Sanka all day out of Styrofoam cups. He may have every right to ask me to learn QuickBooks, but he could've done it in a less rude way.

After everything I've been through with the boss-man: discovering his intimate chats with girls, putting up with his smelly apartment, asking me to organize his collection of business cards from gentleman's clubs, his inappropriate humor in which I could make millions if my laziness didn't get in the way of me suing for sexual harassment, his anger issues, his violent tendencies... ALL OF THIS…

… did not compare to the intense amount of resentment I felt in him wanting me to drive to Huntington Beach to learn QuickBooks.

The time changed to 8:02 AM.

I looked at boss-man.

"Yeah, this job isn't really working out for me."

Chapter 8: The Family

I knew in my mind that my time with boss-man was winding down. This was getting too weird. I couldn't even stand the smell of his apartment anymore.

For the next few days I tried to conjure up the strength to say, "I quit" to his face. This was a difficult task because it would involve talking to him and looking at him with his un-brushed curly hair and his Carrier polo shirt with coffee stains all over it.

He ordered a bunch of holiday cards to send out to his past and potential clients. He was quite proud of his choice. He took one of the cards out. "Read them," he ordered.

The inside of them read, “Warm Holiday Wishes. From the [Lame Company Name] Family.”

Who the hell was this family? It was just him and… me.

Oh God. I'm a part of the [Lame Company Name] Family!

I don’t to be a part of this family!

I don't want to be a part of a team with this man!

I am out here in Los Angeles to become an actor… or a writer… or a director… or a producer… okay, I came out to L.A. to work in catering, but I did not come out here to be part of the [Lame Company Name] Family!

I want my television debut to be on a Kotex pads commercial and not being interviewed for the news coverage about an L.A. small business owner/failed standup comic that gets a reality show because he made some wisecracks when he was caught by Chris Wallace on To Catch a Predator.

I started breathing heavily. He was looking at me for a response. I opened my mouth.

"I… I…"

Say it, Becky. Say you quit. Get the fuck out of there.

"I… like them a lot."

I'm such a pussy.